The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone;
Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined,
And a few half-blown buds ’midst its leaves were entwined.
Say, lovely one, say, why lingerest thou here?
And why on thy bosom reclines the bright tear?
’Tis the tear of the zephyr—for summer ’twas shed,
And for all thy companions now withered and dead.
Why lingerest thou here, when around thee are strown
The flowers once so lovely, by autumn blasts blown?